Gentleman's Rules
by ChaosandMayhem
Summary: "They have a will of their own, a will of fire and blood, that passes to its carrier—carrier, not owner, for only a fool would claim to own dark magic—and if its carrier is a weak-minded man then the power will consume him..." A tale of a slave, a dark magic, and a pair of innocent-looking tobacco cutters. Written for the "Pieces of Eight" challenge on the Black Pearl forum.


And after three years, I'm back to my fanfiction roots with a PotC story. :)

This was written in response to a challenge on the Black Pearl forum, asking us to explore the origins/aspects of the Nine Pieces of Eight. I chose Gentleman Jocard's tobacco cutters. The rest of the stories can be found here: **_ww w. fanfiction topic/ 67105/ 19502591/ 3/ PotC-Fanfiction-Story-Recommendations #8047 3192_**. Be sure to give 'em a read!

Thanks to Belphegor for the beta, FreedomoftheSeas for assisting me in the story idea, and Stutley Constable for his patience and leadership in this endeavor.

Enjoy!

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**Gentleman's Rules**

"You're not going to beg for mercy?"

"I've never really believed in giving mercy to those that don't deserve it. Why start now?"

The young slave blinked, taken aback by his wry tone, before tightening his grip on the pistol in his hands.

Samuel eased himself back into his favorite chair. Outside of the dining room the cries and gunshots of revolt tumbled and rang through the air, and fire danced across the plantation. But inside it was dark and calm.

Samuel nodded towards the window. "I take it that's your doing?"

The slave didn't move, didn't respond, but the way he tensed told Samuel everything he needed to know. He smiled. "Ah. Perhaps you are the one I've been looking for." He shifted, old bones creaking.

The young slave—a strapping, powerfully-built African—studied him intently. "Lookin' for?" he repeated.

Samuel dug his hands into his pocket and withdrew an innocent-looking pair of tobacco cutters. He dangled them in front of him, watching the way the slave's eyes flickered to it and back again. "You know the rumors, yes?" He waited for the slave to nod before continuing, "Good. And before you kill me and take it for yourself, perhaps you would like to know its history. The history of an object is very important for potential buyers, you know." He smirked, just a bit, and the slave scowled.

Samuel tilted his head back and studied the slave. "What is your name?"

"They call me Gumbo."

"And what is the name you prefer?"

The slave lifted his chin, and when he spoke there was a fierce, protective pride in his voice: "Jocard."

"Well, Jocard, be a gentleman, and allow me to tell you this story."

Jocard frowned, and Samuel could see his resolve wavering. He cleared his throat. "Allow me this one small favor…and then you have my permission to kill me."

**….**

Sit down, sit down, boy. Don't just stand there gawking, you can never truly appreciate a good story if you aren't comfortable. There's brandy in the cupboard if you like. No? Oh, very well.

Allow me to ask you something. Do you believe in magic? Hm. I thought not. You're a man of the earth—you believe in what you can feel, what you can touch. You suppose magic is for small children and foolish old women.

Well, let me be the first to assure you magic is for anyone _but_.

It's dangerous business, magic. It's alive. Oh, it doesn't feel and think as you and I do—and you think, boy, you thought long and hard about this revolt and it seems to going in your favor thus far—but where was I? Ah, magic, yes. Magic is _aware_. Magic has ego. The bigger and flashier it gets, the more dangerous it becomes. Why do you suppose the Fountain of Youth was hidden away? The cleverest of magic exists in the little things, survives contently and quietly.

No, don't bring your attention to the tobacco cutters just yet.

We'll get there in good time.

It started two hundred years ago, on a plantation not unlike this one, in the warm and sultry Caribbean. It was the Spanish who ruled then, and a tougher lot of zealous Catholics you'll never meet again, unless you visit Italy, I suppose.

You're not a Catholic, are you?

Oh. Good.

As I was saying, it was the Spanish who ruled here, cut the islands and the islanders down to size in their bloody conquests for glory, God, and gold. They settled down here, raised up the sugar cane, the likes of which the world had never seen before. But a man can't run a plantation all by himself—well, I don't need to tell you that, do I, my Gentlemen Jocard? He needs workers. He needs slaves. And in that time we still traded with Africans as allies—we stole some off as slaves, yes, but not nearly as blatant as we do today.

In that time, we enslaved the natives.

Working on a tobacco plantation must seem like Hell. Well, working on a sugar plantation _is_ Hell. No need for details—I suppose you might understand their plight well enough—but let me assure that the islanders died in droves. Whole populations, gone. Men worked to death, women raped and murdered, children torn to bits by dogs. It was not a pretty time.

And our story begins with an ugly man.

His name is lost to history, his features erased by time. It'll happen to us both someday, you know. Master or slave, we're all dust in the end. What matters is our deeds. And the deeds of this man matter very much.

Some say it was his father who was brutally murdered before his eyes. Some that it was the Spanish that who their way with his wife. Some say that there was no personal injustice done to him, and that it was the muted rage of all his conquered people that rose within him.

He was a slave. Who led a revolt.

Aha, made you jump, didn't I? Well, my Gentlemen Jocard, you are not the first to try it and nor will you be the last. Although judging by the sounds coming from outside, you are slightly more successful than most.

The slave led a revolt on the sugar plantation he toiled away at, day and day. They set fire to the crop and slew the overseers. The soil was soaked with blood, the sky overhead dark with smoke. It was then, when the peaceful island had been twisted into a true rendition of Dante's Hell, that our tobacco cutters come into our story.

Funny thing about tobacco cutters—they can be used for cutting more than plants.

Our nameless slave tore the tongue from his master, stole his voice away as the voices of his people had been silenced.

But the dark deeds didn't end there, my boy. Our protagonist took those bloodied tobacco cutters deep into the jungle, to the small, nearly forgotten shrine of heathen gods. Don't think I don't see the skepticism in your eyes! The heathen gods are gone now—a god is only as good as the faith mortals put into him, you know. But back then there was faith yet, and the gods had enough power to imbue the slave's new weapon of choice with a dark and ancient magic.

What happened next? The slave vanished, only to reappear as a pirate along the coast. Armed with a Spanish ship, Spanish guns, and native men, he plundered up and down the islands, and no one who provoked his wrath was safe.

You see, Gentlemen Jocard, that is the problem with magic born of hatred and bloodlust. It's all-consuming, no matter how justified those dark emotions are. T'was the tobacco cutters that he kept on him at all times—the power imbued within them was small but powerful, and the enchantments clouded the mind's good judgment. There was luck in that power too—the ex-slave was successful in all his bloody endeavors—but what a terrible price for luck, to lose your soul.

The ex-slave died young. Of what, I'm not sure. Another mystery left to antiquity, I suppose. His most prized possession passed to his most trusted friend, and on the power of enchanted tobacco cutters passed. Do you remember what I said, about the smallest magic being the cleverest?

Well, these tobacco cutters are small, and let me assure you they are clever. They have a will of their own, a will of fire and blood, that passes to its carrier—carrier, not owner, for only a fool would claim to own dark magic—and if its carrier is a weak-minded man then the power will consume him. Those tobacco cutters left a trail of dead bodies in their wake. Some went mad, some went missing, some lived out their days to a bitter end. And eventually, those tobacco cutters found themselves in the hands of a pirate named King Samuel.

Don't be frightened. I merely share his name.

King Samuel was a clever man, but he was a hardly a king—his proper title was that of a _Lord_. Pirate Lord of the Atlantic, and a good one at that. He was present for the Second Brethren Court, when the Nine Lords committed a previously unthinkable act.

They bound Calypso to our mortal realm.

Yes, Calypso. Didn't I just finish telling you that gods are only as good as their worshipers? And Calypso, in her time, had plenty of worshipers. She was powerful. Too powerful for the Brethren Court to allow her to remain free. They wanted to claim the seas for themselves, to tame the restless sea and skies for their own profit.

The Nine Lords relinquished nine items to the binding ritual, items to act as keys. Ah, now you see were the tobacco cutters come in. Yes, King Samuel gave his most prized possession—his own magical item—to the cause. Whether those other junk items had any true worth, I do not know. But when the dark ritual was done, something was wrong with the tobacco cutters—the magic had gone right out of them. Why? I don't know. The mysteries of the universe are beyond me. But I suppose there was a violent magic, a greedy one that overtook and destroyed the curse of the tobacco cutters. You might suppose they're dead now—can't control its possessor anymore, can't give him any scraps of luck.

Well, let me tell you, magic has a very hard time dying, and especially magic that's been scorned. It's in there, fluttering and faint as a dying man's heartbeat. Perhaps someday it'll be revived.

And I'm counting on you to be there when it is.

**…**

Samuel folded his hands neatly in front of him, eyes flickering from the object resting on the table to Jocard's impassive face. "Well, go on." He arched his eyebrows expectantly.

Carefully, with the slow, cautious movements of a mouse in a mouse trap, Jocard leaned forward and grabbed for the tobacco cutters, swiping them off the table and tucking them securely into his pocket. With his free hand he cocked his pistol and raised it level with Samuel's head.

The plantation owner smiled faintly. "One last request—if it's not too much to ask, could you perhaps make it a clean shot? I'd hate to leave an ugly corpse for them to bury." He closed his eyes and settled back into his seat, folding his hands into his lap. "Good night, my Gentleman Jocard. It's been a pleasure."

A single gunshot shattered the air like glass. Samuel's twitching body slumped forward.

Jocard smirked and patted the tobacco cutters in his pocket before sliding his pistol into his belt and leaving the dark room. Gentleman Jocard, he mused. Now _there_ was a name that would grab attention.

As he left the big house, Jocard became aware of a faint pulsating sensation against his hip, like that of a dying man's heartbeat.

* * *

Whew! That was fun.

I ended up taking some things from Jocard's official backstory and rearranging them-hope you don't mind. And Samuel (the plantation owner) was largely inspired by Christopher Waltz. Fabulous actor.

Hope you enjoyed, and be sure to check out the rest!

~Chaos


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